The next day was Sunday, and, after the midday meal, Sir Harold was startled by a vision of beauty that suddenly appeared before him. It was Theresa in one of her new frocks--a perfect-fitting dress of creamy, shimmering stuff, a coral necklet round her ivory throat, and a bunch of scarlet poppies in her hair. “Theresa!” gasped Sir Harold. “Surely not. Oh, how lovely you are, little one!” “Do you think so? I am so glad if you are pleased!” Mr. Hamilton was looking on, and a deep sigh escaped him. “It is her mother over again,” he said, in a half-whisper. “I never noticed it before. The likeness is almost fatal. They would know her anywhere!” He shuddered, and his face blanched. But with Sir Harold his darling would be safe! He watched them into the garden, Theresa looking trustfully up at the man she loved, and her happy laughter ringing in his ears. “I never knew the meaning of real happiness until now,” she was saying to the young baronet; “my father has always told me that it was illusive, and the mere imaginings of the poets and romancists.” “But it is real, Theresa, is it not? We have proved it to be so,” replied the baronet. “How could it be otherwise when we love so well?” she whispered. He did not reply; he was thinking what a pleasant duty it was to take care of this lovely child, who lived wholly and solely for him. “As my wife, Theresa, you will some day be one of the highest ladies in the land,” he said. “I shall be one of the proudest and happiest, Harold. I covet no greater honor than to be by your side in a cottage or a palace.” “We will live abroad for a few years,” he went on, “until my memory is fully restored. Then I can return to the home of my ancestors without fear.” “And if you should ever meet and recognize the Lady Elaine?” she asked him, her face paling at the thought. “It is hardly likely,” he laughed. “I must have hated her when I went away--hated myself for my folly. She will never cross my path again.” They sat down in the little arbor side by side, but Theresa would talk and think of nothing but love. Love was her eternal theme. She heard it among the leaves, and in the stream that trickled behind the garden. She heard it in the song of the birds and in the drone of the bees. “If you did not love me, Harold, I should die,” she said. “I could almost wish that the few years you have forgotten would never return again. Have you ever heard the Romaic song which tells of the deathless agony of slighted love? Listen, Harold. Its burden has fascinated me: Ah, Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, While day and night roll darkling by. Without one friend to bear my woe, I faint, I die, beneath the blow; That love had arrows well I knew; Alas! I find them poison’d, too!